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Best Famous Girl Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Girl poems. This is a select list of the best famous Girl poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Girl poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of girl poems.

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by Walt Whitman | |

I Hear America Singing

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear, 
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong, 
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam, 
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work, 
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand 
singing on the steamboat deck, 
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands, 
The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or 
at noon intermission or at sundown, 
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of 
the girl sewing or washing, 
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else, 
The day what belongs to the day--at night the party of young fellows, 
robust, friendly, 
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.


by Christina Rossetti | |

In an Artists Studio

One face looks out from all his canvases,
     One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans:
     We found her hidden just behind those screens,
That mirror gave back all her loveliness.
A queen in opal or in ruby dress, A nameless girl in freshest summer-greens, A saint, an angel—every canvas means The same one meaning, neither more nor less.
He feeds upon her face by day and night, And she with true kind eyes looks back on him, Fair as the moon and joyful as the light: Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim; No as she is, but was when hope shone bright; Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.


by William Butler Yeats | |

THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor I went to blow the fire aflame, But something rustled on the floor, And someone called me by my name: It had become a glimmering girl With apple blossom in her hair Who called me by my name and ran And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.


by John Keats | |

Stanzas

IN a drear-nighted December  
Too happy happy tree  
Thy branches ne'er remember 
Their green felicity: 
The north cannot undo them 5 
With a sleety whistle through them; 
Nor frozen thawings glue them 
From budding at the prime.
In a drear-nighted December Too happy happy brook 10 Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look; But with a sweet forgetting They stay their crystal fretting Never never petting 15 About the frozen time.
Ah! would 'twere so with many A gentle girl and boy! But were there ever any Writhed not at pass¨¨d joy? 20 To know the change and feel it When there is none to heal it Nor numb¨¨d sense to steal it Was never said in rhyme.


by Philip Larkin | |

Autobiography At An Air-Station

 Delay, well, travellers must expect 
Delay.
For how long? No one seems to know.
With all the luggage weighed, the tickets checked, It can't be long.
.
.
We amble too and fro, Sit in steel chairs, buy cigarettes and sweets And tea, unfold the papers.
Ought we to smile, Perhaps make friends? No: in the race for seats You're best alone.
Friendship is not worth while.
Six hours pass: if I'd gone by boat last night I'd be there now.
Well, it's too late for that.
The kiosk girl is yawning.
I fell stale, Stupified, by inaction - and, as light Begins to ebb outside, by fear, I set So much on this Assumption.
Now it's failed.


by Philip Larkin | |

A Study Of Reading Habits

 When getting my nose in a book
Cured most things short of school,
It was worth ruining my eyes
To know I could still keep cool,
And deal out the old right hook
To dirty dogs twice my size.
Later, with inch-thick specs, Evil was just my lark: Me and my coat and fangs Had ripping times in the dark.
The women I clubbed with sex! I broke them up like meringues.
Don't read much now: the dude Who lets the girl down before The hero arrives, the chap Who's yellow and keeps the store Seem far too familiar.
Get stewed: Books are a load of crap.


by Philip Larkin | |

Sunny Prestatyn

 Come to Sunny Prestatyn
Laughed the girl on the poster,
Kneeling up on the sand
In tautened white satin.
Behind her, a hunk of coast, a Hotel with palms Seemed to expand from her thighs and Spread breast-lifting arms.
She was slapped up one day in March.
A couple of weeks, and her face Was snaggle-toothed and boss-eyed; Huge tits and a fissured crotch Were scored well in, and the space Between her legs held scrawls That set her fairly astride A tuberous cock and balls Autographed Titch Thomas, while Someone had used a knife Or something to stab right through The moustached lips of her smile.
She was too good for this life.
Very soon, a great transverse tear Left only a hand and some blue.
Now Fight Cancer is there.


by Philip Larkin | |

How Distant

 How distant, the departure of young men
Down valleys, or watching
The green shore past the salt-white cordage
Rising and falling.
Cattlemen, or carpenters, or keen Simply to get away From married villages before morning, Melodeons play On tiny decks past fraying cliffs of water Or late at night Sweet under the differently-swung stars, When the chance sight Of a girl doing her laundry in the steerage Ramifies endlessly.
This is being young, Assumption of the startled century Like new store clothes, The huge decisions printed out by feet Inventing where they tread, The random windows conjuring a street.


by George William Russell | |

Alter Ego

 ALL the morn a spirit gay
Breathes within my heart a rhyme,
’Tis but hide and seek we play
In and out the courts of time.
Fairy lover, when my feet Through the tangled woodland go, ’Tis thy sunny fingers fleet Fleck the fire dews to and fro.
In the moonlight grows a smile Mid its rays of dusty pearl— ’Tis but hide and seek the while, As some frolic boy and girl.
When I fade into the deep Some mysterious radiance showers From the jewel-heart of sleep Through the veil of darkened hours.
Where the ring of twilight gleams Round the sanctuary wrought, Whispers haunt me—in my dreams We are one yet know it not.
Some for beauty follow long Flying traces; some there be Seek thee only for a song: I to lose myself in thee.


by Henry Van Dyke | |

Love in a Look

 Let me but feel thy look's embrace, 
Transparent, pure, and warm, 
And I'll not ask to touch thy face,
Or fold thee with mine arm.
For in thine eyes a girl doth rise, Arrayed in candid bliss, And draws me to her with a charm More close than any kiss.
A loving-cup of golden wine, Songs of a silver brook, And fragrant breaths of eglantine, Are mingled in thy look.
More fair they are than any star, Thy topaz eyes divine -- And deep within their trysting-nook Thy spirit blends with mine.


by David Herbert Lawrence | |

Beautiful Old Age

 It ought to be lovely to be old
to be full of the peace that comes of experience
and wrinkled ripe fulfilment.
The wrinkled smile of completeness that follows a life lived undaunted and unsoured with accepted lies they would ripen like apples, and be scented like pippins in their old age.
Soothing, old people should be, like apples when one is tired of love.
Fragrant like yellowing leaves, and dim with the soft stillness and satisfaction of autumn.
And a girl should say: It must be wonderful to live and grow old.
Look at my mother, how rich and still she is! - And a young man should think: By Jove my father has faced all weathers, but it's been a life!


by David Herbert Lawrence | |

The Bride

 My love looks like a girl to-night, 
But she is old.
The plaits that lie along her pillow Are not gold, But threaded with filigree silver, And uncanny cold.
She looks like a young maiden, since her brow Is smooth and fair, Her cheeks are very smooth, her eyes are closed.
She sleeps a rare Still winsome sleep, so still, and so composed.
Nay, but she sleeps like a bride, and dreams her dreams Of perfect things.
She lies at last, the darling, in the shape of her dream, And her dead mouth sings By its shape, like the thrushes in clear evenings.


by Rainer Maria Rilke | |

The Gazelle

Gazella Dorcas


Enchanted thing: how can two chosen words
ever attain the harmony of pure rhyme
that pulses through you as your body stirs?
Out of your forehead branch and lyre climb

and all your features pass in simile through
the songs of love whose words as light as rose-
petals rest on the face of someone who
has put his book away and shut his eyes:

to see you: tensed as if each leg were a gun
loaded with leaps but not fired while your neck
holds your head still listening: as when

while swimming in some isolated place
a girl hears leaves rustle and turns to look:
the forest pool reflected in her face.


by Rainer Maria Rilke | |

The Sonnets To Orpheus: XXV

 But you now, dear girl, whom I loved like a flower whose
 name
I didn't know, you who so early were taken away:
I will once more call up your image and show it to them,
beautiful companion of the unsubduable cry.
Dancer whose body filled with your hesitant fate, pausing, as though your young flesh had been cast in bronze; grieving and listening--.
Then, from the high dominions, unearthly music fell into your altered heart.
Already possessed by shadows, with illness near, your blood flowed darkly; yet, though for a moment suspicious, it burst out into the natural pulses of spring.
Again and again interrupted by downfall and darkness, earthly, it gleamed.
Till, after a terrible pounding, it entered the inconsolably open door.


by Lucy Maud Montgomery | |

You

 You came – 
determined, 
because I was large,
because I was roaring,
but on close inspection
you saw a mere boy.
You seized and snatched away my heart and began to play with it – like a girl with a bouncing ball.
And before this miracle every woman was either a lady astounded or a maiden inquiring: “Love such a fellow? Why, he'll pounce on you! She must be a lion tamer, a girl from the zoo!” But I was triumphant.
I didn’t feel it – the yoke! Oblivious with joy, I jumped and leapt about, a bride-happy redskin, I felt so elated and light.
Transcribed: by Mitch Abidor.


by Julie Hill Alger | by Julie Hill Alger. You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/famous/poem/23147/Tuesdays_Child' st_title='Tuesday's Child'>|

Tuesday's Child

All the babies born that Tuesday,
full of grace, went home by Thursday
except for one, my tiny girl
who rushed toward light too soon.
All the Tuesday mothers wheeled down the corridor in glory, their arms replete with warm baby; I carried a potted plant.
I came back the next day and the next, a visitor with heavy breasts, to sit and rock the little pilgrim, nourish her, nourish me.


by Maria Mazziotti Gillan | |

My Daughter at 14 Christmas Dance 1981

 Panic in your face, you write questions
to ask him.
When he arrives, you are serene, your fear unbetrayed.
How unlike me you are.
After the dance, I see your happiness; he holds your hand.
Though you barely speak, your body pulses messages I can read all too well.
He kisses you goodnight, his body moving toward yours, and yours responding.
I am frightened, guard my tongue for fear my mother will pop out of my mouth.
"He is not shy," I say.
You giggle, a little girl again, but you tell me he kissed you on the dance floor.
"Once?" I ask.
"No, a lot.
" We ride through rain-shining 1 a.
m.
streets.
I bite back words which long to be said, knowing I must not shatter your moment, fragile as a spun-glass bird, you, the moment, poised on the edge of flight, and I, on the ground, afraid.
Maria Mazziotti Gillan Copyright © 1995


by John Gould Fletcher | |

Spring

 Sound the Flute!
Now it's mute.
Birds delight Day and Night Nightingale In the dale Lark in Sky Merrily Merrily Merrily to welcome in the Year Little Boy Full of joy, Little Girl Sweet and small, Cock does crow So do you.
Merry voice Infant noise Merrily Merrily to welcome in the Year Little Lamb Here I am.
Come and lick My white neck.
Let me pull Your soft Wool.
Let me kiss Your soft face Merrily Merrily we welcome in the Year


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

MOTIVES.

 IF to a girl who loves us truly
Her mother gives instruction duly
In virtue, duty, and what not,--
And if she hearkens ne'er a jot,
But with fresh-strengthen'd longing flies

To meet our kiss that seems to burn,--

Caprice has just as much concerned
As love in her bold enterprise.
But if her mother can succeed In gaining for her maxims heed, And softening the girl's heart too, So that she coyly shuns our view,-- The heart of youth she knows but ill; For when a maiden is thus stern, Virtue in truth has less concern In this, than an inconstant will.
1767-9.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

DECLARATION OF WAR.

 OH, would I resembled

The country girls fair,
Who rosy-red ribbons

And yellow hats wear!

To believe I was pretty

I thought was allow'd;
In the town I believed it

When by the youth vow'd.
Now that Spring hath return'd, All my joys disappear; The girls of the country Have lured him from here.
To change dress and figure, Was needful I found, My bodice is longer, My petticoat round.
My hat now is yellow.
My bodice like snow; The clover to sickle With others I go.
Something pretty, e'er long Midst the troop he explores; The eager boy signs me To go within doors.
I bashfully go,-- Who I am, he can't trace; He pinches my cheeks, And he looks in my face.
The town girl now threatens You maidens with war; Her twofold charms pledges .
Of victory are.
1803.